


the joint and several liability of home

by norikae



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-08 09:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17383649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norikae/pseuds/norikae
Summary: It feels, morbidly, like dissection: to look inside a cadaver, to count his ribs and run your hand over his lungs, to never know his name.





	the joint and several liability of home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tonyang (kurusui)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurusui/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the end to this breathtaking feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356030) by [tonyang (kurusui)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurusui/pseuds/tonyang). 



> Dear tonyang, thank you for the original. I tried to poke around more in the dynamics of Won/Hui/Gyu/Hao in attempting this, and it was definitely a step out of my comfort zone. I hope I did your work at least a measure of justice. 
> 
> Dear every other reader, I'd like to invite you to read the work this is a remix of! Other than that, thank you for clicking through, and I hope you enjoy your stay.

Junhui is starfished on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling as he hums something tuneless in Mandarin. Wonwoo thinks he catches snatches of the words for _sun, call,_ and _chase_. The tune is something puerile, as far as he can tell, so he hesitates, loose grip briefly tightening around the novel under his arm, before he eventually gives in to the pull in between his lowermost ribs, letting his lanky legs take him over to the prone form.

Looks over, like peering off the edge of a precipice, until he meets feline eyes, wide and dark in his idle contentment.

“Hello, Wonwoo,” Junhui greets cheerfully, blinking at the Wonwoo-shaped outline cut into the ceiling. “What brings you to my humble abode today?”

Wonwoo frowns instinctively at the question, pulling back and crawling to safety away from the side of the cliff. Says, at cross purposes, “What're you doing on the floor?”

If he's upset by the disjointed conversation, Junhui gives no indication, resuming his humming with more force. He wiggles his legs aimlessly for a moment, then says, “I like it here. You should try it out, sometime.” Pats the space next to him invitingly, like it's a cosy space on a loveseat for two.

Wonwoo gives a false start. A slight burn in his forearm reminds him of the novel he'd just purchased the day before, weighty in his grasp. It pulls him out of the almost-reverie, an unceremonious wash of ice water upended on his head.

“Maybe next time,” he says instead, and escapes to his room, where nobody will ask him questions he can't answer.

 

\---

 

Wonwoo is nice.

That’s about as much as Junhui can say with any sort of clarity, anyway. The group is at a barbeque place, all thirteen of them crowded about three tables pushed into one massive one, stacked to the edges with meats of all sorts, the myriad of side dishes cluttering its surface so severely he would be hard-pressed to tell you what material the table is. Long benches join each other on either side of the amalgamation, stools bookending the sides.

There’s noise, and no shortage of it. Thirteen freshly-debuted idol boys, ravenous after a long period of schedules and promotions; amidst the smoke and conversation there is very little space for a proper word. Junhui filters in at the tail end of the group, keeping his arms inwards so he doesn’t take up too much space, and peers around timidly to look for a place to slot himself in.

“Jun,” Wonwoo calls, somehow discernible through the hubbub, and gestures next to him. “I saved you a seat.”

Junhui perks up instantly. The sliver of space is between Wonwoo and Minghao, and across from Seungcheol. At the end of the table, perched precariously on a stool too small for his legs, Mingyu barely looks up, concentrating on meat-grilling duty. Next to Seungcheol is Joshua, saying something about how _the KBBQ restaurants back in LA do_ not _match up to this_. They don’t look up when he waddles by, crabways.

When he slips into the spot Minghao turns away from the conversation at his table to scoot over a little bit, throwing him a very small, but unexpected smile. He nearly leans into that flicker of warmth instinctively before remembering, and turns back to the members of his table. Says, “Thanks, Wonwoo,” and smiles neatly, showing all of his teeth.

“Ah, hyungs, eat up.”

At the table’s end Mingyu is plating a round of already cooked pork. Junhui tries not to look too eager as Wonwoo passes Junhui his share with one hand, instinctively steadying him against knocking a dish of pickles over with the other. “I’ll get it for you,” Wonwoo murmurs, not looking at him.

Pacified, Junhui focuses on eating. The meat, when it touches his tongue, is flavourful and juicy, crisped just enough to provide a tantalising hint of smoke.

“Mingyu, this is really good,” he comments, carefully. He smiles again, the same one he’d used on Wonwoo not too long ago, and feels a relief when Mingyu grins back.

“Yeah, it is. ‘Gyu’s one skill is cooking,” Wonwoo quips, letting out a cackle. Junhui stares, not used to this behaviour, but nobody else seems fazed. He supposes this means that he shouldn’t be.

Mingyu’s cheeks are pink. It may or may not be from the proximity of the grill. “ _Hyung_ ,” he whines, a tad pathetically. The pout makes him adorable, the way his cheeks plump and his mouth squishes together. “Give me back my hard work if you’re going to be mean to me!”

Wonwoo only hums, visibly amused. “I technically praised you though?” Then he pretends to give it some thought. “If you don’t want me being nice to you you just have to ask, you know?” With skilful chopsticks he swipes at the grill, stealing a piece that has just browned enough to be eaten.

Across the table Seungcheol and Joshua watch passively, identical expressions of amusement on their faces. Mingyu makes a rising sound of objection that is quickly quelled with a raise of Wonwoo’s eyebrows, and lays the raw beef on the grill with no small degree of petulance, lips pushed so far into a pout they nearly touch his nose.

Then Wonwoo is reaching over to ruffle his hair apologetically, and the way Mingyu unfurls into the affection, eyes bright and snaggletooth showing, makes Junhui feel like he is watching the scene from behind a window, close enough to see, but too afraid to ask to be let in.

 

\---

 

Mingyu is bent over a sketchbook, the June 2016 issue of _Vogue Korea_ open on the tabletop next to him. His pencil is hesitant, eraser insistent; over and over again he traces the line he thinks he wants to draw until there is a shadow, casting itself across the white of his stationery shop purchase, obscuring the tiny dents his poorly wielded mechanical pencil has left in the paper.

He doesn’t set the pencil down so much as drops it, glancing up with his mouth open in an initial frustration that instantly bleeds away when he makes contact with a curious, attentive gaze. “Myungho,” he says, instead.

“You have to focus more on your relative proportions,” Minghao comments, unprompted. From anybody else the unsolicited comment would grate, but his matter-of-fact attitude packages it as what it is, softening the blow.

Protectively, he curls an arm around the piece anyway, shielding it from view. After adjusting himself into a semblance of a casual pose, he lifts his head and smiles as charmingly as possible. Asks, “What're you doing?”

Minghao's stare is unerring. “I didn't know you drew,” he says, which is his version of a concession. He leans back, crosses his arms. “I do too, you know.” Pause. “I try, anyway, I'm not very good.”

He hadn't known that. “I didn't know that,” Mingyu says carefully, feeling a little bit emboldened. Under Minghao's unblinking gaze he slowly unwinds from around the sketch, squinting at it again. He's right; the scale of head to limbs makes the drawing look strange. Mingyu feels distinctly like he has been embarrassed, in parallel situations before. For some reason he isn't now.

“There's a lot we don't know,” Minghao quips, comfortably. He pulls a nearby desk chair over and sits down on it, uninvited.

“I can go if you want,” he says, folding into a lanky, long-limbed sit. Mingyu knows he would, if he said the word.

His tongue is thick in his mouth. “No,” he manages, around it. “You can stay.”

 

\---

 

It's autumn, now, the wind beginning to bite through the holes in his jeans. Minghao looks up from the fashion magazine he'd made a trip specifically to get, peers across at the lone other inhabitant of the room who is too engrossed in his game on the communal computer to notice.

He watches quietly for a while. Wonwoo is… like a text written in Korean, to him. It would be easier to figure him out if he spoke more, for one. For another, Minghao understands him more by their mutual relations through shared points.

Like when Mingyu calls _hyung_ , and Wonwoo's lips curl habitually into a smile before he turns around. That tells him he is prone to a silent, native affection. In this metaphor Mingyu disambiguates. Deconstructs figurative language into simple Korean. _From Mt. Yak / In Yongbyon / I shall gather armfuls of azaleas / And scatter them on your way._

He supposes that makes Junhui the dictionary, then _._ _江_ _边那满山绚烂_ _/_ _金达莱花_ _/_ _我会掬来一捧撒在你离去的路上_ _._ He doesn't think Wonwoo realises, but it's clear as day to him, when he watches Junhui.

Minghao, of all people, would understand yearning well.

“Wonwoo-hyung.”

Wonwoo jumps, and on screen there is a blinding flash, taking out his DPS character two in-game steps from a stack of crates. A text overlay appears, counting down the seconds to respawn; careless, he hits the escape key rapidly, exiting the client altogether.

Minghao quickly removes his hand from Wonwoo’s shoulder. “Ah - sorry about your game,” he says, although he doesn't mean it terribly earnestly. But his mother would want him to be polite. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Wonwoo’s brows jump into his fringe at this, and slowly he winds his desk chair backwards, removing his fancy headphones as he does. He looks perplexed when he says, “Yeah?”

Minghao considers. If he has to be frank, he hadn't actually thought he'd get this far. Not because Wonwoo wouldn't let him - but in this scenario, tracked over and over again in his head, he never makes it to the desk. In his own imagination he slinks away, afraid, every time.

 _You don't make sense to me, and it's hell trying to figure you out_ sounds flimsy and ruder than even his habitual bluntness would allow. He settles for tracing a line between them. “Have you spoken to Junnie-hyung recently?” he says, instead.

Wonwoo’s face is very, very still. “Not in particular, I don't think,” he replies. His index finger, hand resting slack on the desk next to the gaming mouse Junhui had helped purchase with spare snack money, twitches a little when he says, “I would've thought you had.”

Instinctively, Minghao colours. He had, in fact, just accompanied Junhui to the convenience store that morning, doomed to his role as the only member awake at eight who would consent to his constant badgering without too much of a fuss. At the counter Minghao had stood there watching as Junhui checked out no less than twelve different varieties of gummies and chips, and then smiled at him, later, when Junhui had thrust a bottle of green tea his way, saying _sorry I dragged you out here to watch me buy junk food_.

Junhui does a lot of that, apologising.

Back in the present, he flounders. “I - not really - Okay, kind of,” he admits. “But I was wondering if he said anything to you… like, special or something.” Inwardly he cringes at his own backtracking, how severely off topic he is. Abruptly he envies Wonwoo and the escape key.

Wonwoo looks at him very hard, brows creasing and eyes narrowing behind his chunky glasses. “You're the one he tells everything to,” he says, and Minghao regrets wanting to know, now, is awash in guilt for accidentally learning too much. It feels, morbidly, like dissection: to look inside a cadaver, to count his ribs and run your hand over his lungs, to never know his name. Truthfully, he has always been a little squeamish.

He does his best to play it off. “All Jun-hyung tells me is which snacks are the best,” he laughs, “He knows I don't eat them, anyway.” _He doesn't treat me any different than he does you,_ he tries to say.

Impossibly, Wonwoo looks even smaller. “You listen, though, don't you?”

Minghao blinks rapidly. It feels like he's missing something. “I mean - yeah, of course. Who else is gonna buy them for him when he's too lazy to get off the floor?”

What he means is, _Junnie-hyung kind of adopted me (or made me adopt him), and he's maddening and impossible but I'm only even brave enough to talk to most of you because of him, so of course I let him annoy me into running small errands on his behalf, he doesn't have that leverage over anyone else. You lucky bastards._ He isn't sure he's said it right.

But things always get lost in translation. He knows Wonwoo's heard him wrong when he hums, an absent noise of agreement, and says, “There you have it.” Minghao has the decision of whether to press on or leave made for him when Wonwoo smiles apologetically, tight at the corners, and slips the headphones back over his ears, clicking back into the just-closed client.

He really hadn't meant to. Minghao backtracks to the door. He pulls on a coat - Junhui's, maybe - and thinks that it might be nice to go for a walk.

 

\---

“Gyu. Come here for a minute.”

On the other side of the practice room Mingyu visibly perks up at his name being called, obediently padding over to where Wonwoo is standing against the mirrors, invisible ears alert. Wonwoo feels his mouth tugging into a smile as he watches the taller boy trip over, long legs gangly.

_Force of habit._

“Yeah, hyung?” Mingyu's hair is damp with sweat and messy, the parting lost to a hand pushed through it at some long foregone juncture. His eyes are ringed dark, evidence of his recent incessant practice, but otherwise he still looks flawless. Like an idol, Wonwoo thinks, perhaps moreso than the rest of them.

Suddenly he feels a little bit self conscious, aware of his nerdy glasses and hair shoved under a slightly misshapen beanie. _It's just Mingyu_ , he thinks to himself, but then again, that's never gone very far in making him feel less like he should be sorry.

“We're,” he begins, “We're good friends, right?”

Mingyu, bless his heart, tips his head sideways so far it becomes nearly horizontal, distinctly confused. “Of course,” he replies, “Why wouldn't we be?”

The decisiveness with which Mingyu asserts things is, as it has always been, welcome. Grounding. Perhaps too easily so. Wonwoo knows this; it had been a reason to let go.

“Sorry for interrupting your practice,” he prefaces, transferring the entirety of his weight against the mirrors, looking past Mingyu to the opposing side where he can see the back of his head, directly aligned towards his face. It's easier, not looking him in the eye.

“I just… have you ever felt like things have changed and so have you, so there's - there's no more space for you where you were, and yet - yet you can't go where you want to be, either?”

Wonwoo pauses, grimaces. He watches his features contort, tiny in the far away surface. Under the bright studio light he washes out - the sickly yellow feels like it fits well. “Sorry, that probably sounded really pathetic. I shouldn't have asked.”

Mingyu’s brows knit low on his face before suddenly leaping high with an apparent worry. “Hyung,” he says, “If this is about - about -”

Wonwoo nearly laughs at the excessive worry on Mingyu's face. “No, no,” he assures, waving a hand hurriedly. “That - we - it's been years, Gyu, you know I don't think about it anymore.” He pauses. “You're not _that_ cute,” he adds an afterthought, and does crack a smile.

Like clockwork, Mingyu pouts the exact extent Wonwoo had known he would. “Is that how you treat someone who was worried about you?” he complains. “The goodness of my heart!”

Wonwoo's smile dips, just a notch. “Yeah, you do,” he says, solemn, and meets Mingyu's gaze full-on. “Have a good heart, that is.”

He watches as Mingyu goes into a mild panic, unable to process. Mingyu adores praise. Basks in it, even, but he doesn't know how to confront questions beyond the immediately visible. After a few seconds he takes pity on Mingyu, and releases him from the agony by changing the subject. “I feel better now, anyway.” He smiles, easily. “Thanks, Gyu.”

“I didn't do anything,” Mingyu protests, confused, “And you didn't tell me anything, either…”

Wonwoo's grin broadens. “Exactly,” he says. “Maybe that was what I needed.”

 

 ---

 

Junhui likes the cold, a lot.

He likes Japan, too, because being able to speak Mandarin is basically a cheatsheet when Kanji is everywhere. There’s something nice about how the others turn to him or Minghao to ask, for once, and he doesn’t feel awkward opening his mouth because he knows, here, his help is required, needed, good.

“—hyung!” is all he hears before he’s taking a snowball to the face, and goes down, hitting the ground. There is a riotous squee of what might be a mix between apology and delight, before Seokmin comes running towards him, grin blindingly wide as he sounds vaguely out of breath.

Junhui looks up, and sees the sky, a blinding blue so bright it looks like white, especially when he closes his eyes and the sun leaks through, anyway, makes itself a home. “Hyung, are you okay?” he hears, and Seokmin is peering over him carefully, a dark cutout against the light. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to throw so hard!”

It appears his fall to the ground resulted in a temporary time out; soon Mingyu’s head pops into his vision, too. “I tried to warn you, Jun-hyung,” he tells him toothily, reaching a hand out to help him up. “What were you thinking about? You looked distracted.”

Quite liking his spot on the floor, sunken into the snow and relishing the cold seeping in to his clothes, Junhui crosses his eyes as he looks up at Mingyu, whose hand is still squarely in his vision. “Was I?” he says, mysterious. “Or did I just let you hit me? You’ll never know.”

Mingyu’s hand disappears and he stamps his feet a little, dislodging some snow into Junhui’s neck as he does. “ _Hyung_ ,” he whines, “You’re no fun. You never tell me anything.”

Junhui thinks about a time when he would have. When they were almost close enough to touch, once, many years before. He would have told Mingyu a lot then. In the present he grins, and says, “Where would the fun be in that?”

Mingyu drops into a crouch petulantly, balling up some snow as he speaks, pout pronounced. “I’ll - I’ll tell Myungho,” he threatens, weakly. “I’ll tell him to make you tell him, and then he can tell me.” The ball gains mass as he rolls it in the drift, contemplative. “It’s flawless, that’s my master plan!”

A good distance away Junhui can faintly hear the sound of Chan and Soonyoung shouting at them, most likely asking what the hold up is. Seokmin had left his side a while into his conversation with Mingyu; he thinks he is probably filling them in on the goings-on. He sinks into the ground, a little more. “It would be,” he concedes, “If I ever told him anything.”

There is a _thud_ as the snowball lands squarely against his shoulder, burying him just a little bit more in the snow. “ _Hyung_ ,” Mingyu complains. “Get up, you’re going to die and then Myungho’s gonna kill me for letting you perish in the cold.”

Junhui wonders when he had stopped being understood as a being on his own, existing only through conduits. He thinks it was probably his fault.

He grabs on to Mingyu’s knee, using it to hoist himself up. The younger boy yelps as he is forced to take a knee in the snow.

“I’ll get up,” he says, graciously, “but only because murder is messy.” He holds up a hand to help Mingyu up, too. Then he gets an idea, and turns towards the house, holding their joined hands aloft like he’s announcing a winner. Looks towards the window, where if he squints he can see a silhouette or two.

Waves, at Minghao and what is probably Wonwoo, and then when he’s done he shoves Mingyu into the snow, and turns, and fucking _books_ it.

 

\---

 

“Myungho,” Mingyu says, once. The boy on the bed doesn’t give any indication he’s heard him, earphones plugged in, gaze trained on his phone as he taps away rapidly. He looks busy.

Mingyu thinks that he shouldn’t disturb him, so he turns back to his sketchbook, and fiddles, carving out stiff pencil lines in the paper. It doesn’t look right, so he erases, but the next iteration is wrong, too, so he erases _that_ , and then when a third time still looks awful, he sighs gustily and decides he’ll do what he wants first and apologise later.

“Myungho,” he calls, louder. “ _Myungho_ ,” he tries again, and then, finally, he takes a deep breath, shoving the sound out from his diaphragm like Jihoon had taught him once or twice. “ _MYUNGHO-YA!!!_ ”

“What?!” Minghao blurts in Chinese, jumping as he tears an earphone out his ear, eyes round and wide. He calms down when a panicked survey of his surroundings reveals that there is no crisis, only Mingyu. He relaxes enough to look vaguely irritated.

“Wait - I meant - ugh.” He takes a while to tap the buttons on his phone, presumably pausing his music and finishing whatever he was doing before he looks up properly, taking out both of his earbuds. “Yeah, ‘Gyu? What is it?”

Mingyu purses his lips, a little dubiously. “Were you busy with something?” he asks, wrestling with the green thing that has taken up residence in his chest. “Sorry if I interrupted you…”

Minghao waves a hand dismissively. “No, I was just surfing Weibo and talking to Junnie-hyung. Sorry.” When his hands fold together they are so long, but neat. “What did you need?”

Now the creature has a name. Mingyu’s brows knit together for a moment when he says, dubiously, “If you’re busy it can wait.”

“You’d die if I made you wait for anything,” Minghao says, edges of his mouth curved, as he sets his phone down on the bed, “It’s fine. Jun-hyung stops replying me all the time, anyway.” He comes over, leaning a spindly arm against the back of Mingyu’s chair. “What is it?”

Mingyu cranes his head all the way up and backwards so he can squint at Minghao. For a wild moment he entertains the notion of leaning back, just a little bit, so that they touch. He doesn’t do it.

“It’s just… you have an eye for these things,” he says, and indicates with his hand his paper, where the figure he’s been tracing over and over again just doesn’t look right. “I thought maybe you could help, again.”

“Oh. Sure,” Minghao agrees, unfurling from the backrest and picking up the notebook. He looks at it for a while, considering.

“This… mm, I think you have the same problem as you did back then.” He cocks his head when he makes direct eye contact with Mingyu. “You know what I’m talking about?”

He knows _when_ Minghao is referring to, but the precise point eludes him. “Not really,” Mingyu admits, holding his hands out for his sketchbook back. Minghao hands it to him, and Mingyu places it flat on the desk, flipping back through the pages, one by one, in search of the first sketch Minghao is referring to.

“Wait.”

Mingyu freezes, hand stilled in place by bony fingers wrapped around his wrist. Minghao’s squinting at the open page, looking very slightly perplexed. “Is that me?” he asks.

There is no use in denying it. He had plainly written _The8_ next to the drawing. “Yeah,” Mingyu says, as casually as he can. His mouth feels a little dry, but he manages to say, defensive, “Y-You have a nice silhouette.”

For a moment it hangs there, a gull waiting to have its wings clipped. Mingyu takes a deep breath, and it catches on its way out when, suddenly, Minghao shrugs, and flips the page.

“I don’t mind,” he states, airy as he continues his mission. He’s found the drawing he wanted, now, but Mingyu isn’t paying attention, brain stuttering on repeat, awash in water and brine.

Minghao is talking, but he doesn’t hear a word. Eventually something makes Mingyu open his mouth. He says, “Thanks.”

Minghao startles, cutting off his sentence to look at him. His forehead creases in confusion. “What are you talking about,” he deadpans, and then - “Oh.” There is a weight to his conviction when he continues, eyes shy, “Don’t mention it.”

 

\---

 

They’re on tour, in Thailand, and it’s muggy. The window is wide open, and below the cars scream by, the city bustling despite the late hour. Minghao toes Junhui with one bare foot, and earns a dissatisfied grunt as he rolls over onto his front, seemingly bent on staying despite his limbs hanging clean off either end.

“Get off,” Minghao intones mildly, “You’re on my bed.”

Junhui’s voice is muffled where he speaks into the mattress. “I know,” he chirps, “I put myself here.”

Minghao sighs again, and rolls Junhui over one more time so he has the space to stretch out a little. Unsurprisingly, the older boy is pliant, and lets him. “You did indeed,” he agrees. “Now, why did you do that?”

Having been rolled back onto his back, Junhui turns towards him, eyes bright when he says, “Because I like you!”

Minghao resists the urge to push him one more time, because then he’d be on the floor, and Lilili Yabbay just doesn’t look good with only three people. “Why are you in my room, I meant,” he clarifies, folding into a cross-legged stance and leaning his bony arm on his thigh, resting his head in his hand. He peers over down at Junhui, and raises one eyebrow critically.

“Gyu’s out, anyway, “Junhui says, avoiding the question.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Minghao points out, bland. His other hand drums a lazy tattoo on Junhui’s stomach. “You can’t fool me, Jun.”

In Mandarin the lack of honorifics makes Junhui petulant, more childlike. Minghao knows this; their presence feels like a warning, a cage telling Junhui to _act his age_. He leaves them out, on purpose.

Junhui wriggles a little bit closer, sideways. Then he shifts onto his side, allowing Minghao to rest his hand on his rib, like a particularly large cat with somebody it trusts. “Between you and me,” he mumbles, low as if anybody would overhear them, would even be able to understand. “I think Wonwoo hates me.”

Minghao’s hand pulls away, sharply, and he lets out a long, chastising sound. “ _You_ ,” he exhales, “You are so dumb.”

Junhui frowns, and shoves his head forwards so it nudges at the edge of Minghao’s lap. Reluctantly, a hand falls on his head, patting lightly. “I’m serious,” he says, unhappy.

“So am I,” Minghao tells him, threading fingers very lightly through his hair. “Jun, you don’t know what you have.”

Junhui’s silence and confusion is weighty. It settles like a blanket upon them both, heavy but not unkind. “What do you mean,” he asks. “What do I have that I don’t know I do?”

Idly, Minghao brings the other hand to meet his first, weaving through the strands a few more times before he gathers up a sizeable lock and separates it into three strands, systematically beginning a braid. He knows the unusually tender gesture does not go unnoticed when Junhui stills altogether, one hand curling itself in the loose material of Minghao’s pajama pant leg, childlike.

“Talk to Wonwoo-hyung,” Minghao chastises, gently. “And hold still.”

 

Junhui slips back into their shared room at maybe six a.m. Wonwoo is only awake to see him because he had lost track of time playing on his Switch; it takes him all his effort to put _Breath of the Wild_ down and look properly at Junhui, who is standing there, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

 _Rude. I’m not_ that _frightful looking_.

“Hey,” he greets, casual despite the strange hour and the shadows on Junhui’s face from the dim lighting, the open window, the still-present buzz outside. His voice is scratchy. He hasn’t been using it much, after all.

Junhui shakes himself out of it. “Hey,” he says quietly, closing the door behind him. “Didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

Wonwoo shakes off the urge that comes upon him to ask _were you hoping I’d gone to bed?_ and says, instead, “Yeah, well… Games, you know.”

A smile, hesitant but genuine, creeps onto Junhui’s face at that. “Yeah,” he agrees, tiny. “I know.”

Before the stillness can settle too comfortably about them both Wonwoo clears his throat, abruptly, and holds the console out to Junhui, an ungainly invitation.

“Wanna play?” he says, “I don’t think either of us will be sleeping anyway.”

Junhui chews on his lip, visibly thinking. “Do you mind?” he asks quietly, inching closer. “I don’t know if I’ll break it, or something.”

“You won’t,” Wonwoo assures him, solidly placing the console in both his hands. “I’ll teach you.”

This near, Junhui is close enough to touch. Wonwoo thinks of running, and of opening your mouth, and daring to call a name.

“Sure,” Junhui agrees readily, eyeline soft as his lips curve into a smile. “Thanks, Wonwoo.” He sits down on the bed, and huddles close, waiting.

His lashes are long, and his skin is warm. Wonwoo’s voice is a low, thrumming murmur as he talks Junhui through the basic structure of the game and takes him through the tutorial mode. Soon enough Junhui has the hang of it, and all Wonwoo can do is bask in his delight as he laughs freely, his avatar on-screen skipping wildly around.

On the horizon, the sun begins to yawn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Junhui sings a children's song:  
> 太阳公公起床了 　　  
> 公鸡喔喔把我们叫 　　  
> 你追我赶大家赛跑 　　  
> 看谁最先到学校 
> 
> [ twitter ](http://twitter.com/frogbabey)


End file.
